


Treading Water

by chickenlivesinpumpkin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, BDSM, Caning, Humiliation, Loneliness, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Rimming, Rough Sex, Spanking, Switching, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 01:02:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1570196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chickenlivesinpumpkin/pseuds/chickenlivesinpumpkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lonely and adrift after the first war, Remus isn't making the best choices. Perhaps that's how he ends up following Severus Snape into a sex club.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Treading Water

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own the rights to anything in the HP world. I'm making no money from this.

Remus Lupin knew sneaky when he saw it; moreover, he knew sneaky when it was written all over Severus Snape.

To be fair, Snape was generally very good at being sneaky. It went with Slytherin territory, after all, and being a Death Eater had probably honed more than a few innate, secretive tendencies in the man. Anyone meeting him now would probably find him utterly unreadable; a sphinx. For Remus, however, there would always be a simple advantage: he had known Snape when he was young, before that shield of blankness and easy lies was built to hide whatever darkness lurked beneath. He’d had time to learn Snape’s mannerisms, observe his instinctive reactions before they were culled into mere fractions of themselves. He could see the shadows of Snape’s thoughts in his face and body even now, years after Snape had worn them away. And this was the very definition of Snape being sneaky, even if no one else would’ve seen it.

Except perhaps Lily. But Remus jerked his thoughts away from that topic as soon as it occurred to him.

As Remus stood on the sidewalk beside the adult bookshop he’d been about to enter and watched Snape walking down the other side of the street, his mind immediately abandoned thoughts of finding something suitably dirty and new to read or watch. This was far more interesting. It had been a few years since he’d seen Snape, but he was as distinctive as ever; black, austere robes billowing, lean body moving with surprising grace, dark hair long and flowing, his demeanor so naturally stern and aggressive that Muggle pedestrians virtually tripped over themselves to get out of his way.

He cut a rather impressive figure, Remus had to admit, if also an intimidating one.

But the most captivating part of this was not Snape’s easy, athletic movement or even the fact that, for a man who was not remotely handsome, he managed to somehow catch the eye of every woman—and quite a few men—he passed, but the fact that he had sneakiness radiating from every pore. Even if it was a sneakiness that only Remus could easily make out.

Remus didn’t give the adult bookstore another look. His plans for yet another lonely evening with a cup of tea, a serviceable wank, and a good book vanished without an ounce of regret. He waited a suitable amount of time, during which Snape’s shoulders—broader than they’d been in seventh year, Remus couldn’t help noticing—got nearly a block ahead of him, and then he followed. Remus kept it casual, pretending to window shop a bit, even though the pretense wasn’t wholly convincing; he had to walk far too quickly to keep up with Snape’s brisk strides to sell the act.

They didn’t go far. Snape abruptly turned down an alley, and Remus had to jog a bit, slipping between shoppers, to reach the spot where he’d lost visual contact. He got there just in time to see Snape take another turn, angling down a second, narrower alley. Remus went more carefully now, realizing that this was potentially hazardous—the man he was following was a known former Death Eater, after all, even if there was no one for him to follow since Harry Potter had miraculously vanquished Lord Voldemort from his crib just under two years ago.

When he reached the place where the second alley diverged, Remus took a deep breath. Snape had paused at the far end, perhaps sensing someone following; had Remus not been standing in a dense shadow cast by the nearest building, while Snape stood in a spot of relative sunshine, he might have been perfectly visible. Remus took a second to wonder how he might explain his actions: _just saw you on the street, Snape, and felt the urge to catch up. How’s that spying business coming for you?_ The image of Snape cursing him followed quite naturally. A smile pulled at his lips, the first he’d worn in quite some time that wasn’t induced solely out of politeness.

But Snape didn’t see him, even as he glanced up and down the alley. Remus watched curiously as Snape held out his wand, placed the tip against the brick wall he faced, and tapped three times. A pause, and then Snape put his wand back in his robes, reached out and grasped…a doorknob? As Snape vanished inside, Remus broke into another jog, catching up just in time to see the black door fade and resemble nothing but the red brick façade surrounding its location.

Remus could see no sign of what lay beyond the door at first, although glancing down brought a clue. White paint depicting the outline of two cats, their tails intertwined as they faced in two opposite directions.

At the very least, Remus got the sense that this was a somewhat public place; if it were truly nefarious, there would be no permanent mark, no need to advertise even this little bit, to the dealings. The icon existed to allow people to find the place, even if the lack of other inducements to entry hinted at the preference for secrecy.

The question was, how likely was he to get busted if he tried to get in?

Probably pretty damn likely.

He didn’t really know why he took out his wand and tapped three times on the brick wall in roughly the spot that Snape had tapped. Boredom, ostensibly. Under that, however, was something else. Seeing Snape—the last of what Remus thought of as fixtures from his school days, now that Lily, James, Sirius and Peter were all beyond his reach—had brought a sense of familiarity to him. Family, almost, despite the fact that he and Snape had never shared a relationship even remotely close to familial. But it was very powerful nonetheless. Snape was a remnant of an older, better time. A time when Remus had not been alone. The wolf inside of him, every inch the pack animal, had been withering in the forced solitude.

If there was something under the craving for familiarity, a self-destructiveness, perhaps, caused by a sense of the world swallowing him whole, of the exhaustion that came with feeling alone for so very long, he refused to acknowledge it.

When the door opened, Remus went in. If someone was on the other side, with a wand aimed and ready to kill, so be it. He didn’t hesitate. He wasn’t even nervous.

The space beyond was pitch-black to his eyes. It took nearly a minute for them to fully adjust, and in that time, he became conscious of a nearly overwhelming amount of sensory data. It was a good thing he couldn’t see; his head might have exploded.

The music had some driving, elemental beat, loud enough that he suddenly felt old, even in his early twenties, because his first impulse was to ask someone to turn it down. The space—whatever it was—was slightly too warm, as if he’d sat a bit too near a fire. He could smell something captivating. A mixture of clean human sweat, salt, leather, something like spicy cinnamon and mint together, a bizarrely pleasant mix. And, if his werewolf nose wasn’t mistaken, (and it rarely was, even when he was in human form) there was also the pungent scent of semen and pussy.

He blinked, eyes finally able to make out a long hallway, the distant end of which was lit with weak, white fairy lights, as if he were being directed to an emergency exit or something. And as the music faded for just a moment as one track ended and the next quickly began, he could hear cries.

He was in a sex club. He stood there for a moment in shock, unable to move, staring into the darkness. He’d followed Severus Snape, a former Death Eater, into a damn sex club.

The urge to laugh rose and then suddenly faded. Adrenaline ran under his skin, although he wasn’t sure why. Now it seemed there would be little risk here; even if Snape saw him, the only thing he would experience was a little embarrassment, and he’d certainly survived worse. His shoulders should have relaxed at the realization that he was unlikely to come across any other renegade You-Know-Who supporters. And yet, the idea of going deeper into the club, sliding among whatever he would find, searching for a man who hated him, had him edgy in a way he hadn’t been before.

He did not stop to analyze his anxiety. He simply started walking down the hall.

He turned right at the end, went around a big black wall, and found himself in a rather large room. Although it was still somewhat dark, the music was blocked by the wall a bit here. Now he could hear himself think again, or would’ve been able to, had he not been too shocked by the images that met his eyes. The deeply-shadowed, large common space was lined with smaller, candlelit, glass-fronted rooms so those patrons in the middle could see everything going on within. In the nearest room, Remus could see a naked woman on her knees, her wrists laced together in leather, a ball gag in her mouth while a man stepped carefully around her, a crop in his hands. He was speaking to her, although Remus couldn’t hear his words. When the crop descended on her back, she shuddered.

In the room next to that, a man was bent over a bench, his bare ass fully exposed to the woman firmly working something inside him. He was gritting his teeth in the soft light shining from the ceiling. She was smiling as she stepped away from him, ignoring his dripping cock in favor of running her fingers over his back and neck before lifting a lit candle to pour a thin stream of wax onto exposed skin. The man bore it silently, even if his features remained tight.

It was five in the afternoon on a Monday. Not a traditional day and time for crowds in a place like this. The common space wasn’t full; only seven or eight people viewed the proceedings. None of them were Snape, Remus noted. Only the rooms were lit well enough to make out faces, but he knew that lean figure well enough to know that none of these observers were him. Which meant, Remus figured, that he was most likely in one of these rooms. Doing any number of things. And the thought of it made heat twist through Remus’s belly.

Wait, he thought. Stop. This wasn’t okay.

He knew that Snape had turned spy during the war. He _knew_ that. Dumbledore had spoken for Snape all along, and the Wizengamot had acquitted him of all charges without so much as a trial, even if Remus had serious doubts as to how they could justify that. Spy or not, though, Remus knew what Snape had been a part of. He’d joined the Death Eaters willingly enough in the beginning, after all. Who knew what horrific crimes he’d committed before finding his soul once more? Assuming he had, that he even could? Who knew how much of the Death Eater remained in that complex, twisted mind?

This was a man who’d—temporarily, at least—truly fought on the side that had murdered James and Lily. That had murdered Peter. The side that Sirius had somehow succumbed to. And the thought of that, of Sirius being lost to a darkness that Snape had somehow come out of, made Remus unaccountably angry. His fingers formed fists.

And yet. And yet, there had always been something inside him that felt, well, sorry for Snape. He’d never want to face the wrath of the man should Remus admit that out loud, but it was there all the same. That part wanted to argue that an erection wasn’t an unforgivable event under the conditions.

He began to walk the perimeter of the common space, looking into each of the smaller, primarily empty rooms through the glass, and finally came to the one he’d been searching for. He simply didn’t have the first clue what he meant to do now that he’d found it. That anger still roiled within him, but the glimpse of Snape like this—Snape!—ensured that a sick desire occupied space as well.

Snape still wore his robes and boots, but his long hair was uncharacteristically pulled back off his face in a queue now. It showed his features to a surprising advantage; his cheekbones and jaw revealed, he looked angular in a way that seemed to balance the nose a little. He looked more severe, if that were possible, but also strangely aesthetic. There was a certain—well, the only word for it was _ballsy_ —beauty to him now, as if he didn’t give a fuck what anyone saw when they looked at him, and the very defiance of his refusal to hide behind that hair was stunningly attractive.

In one hand Snape held his wand; in the other he gripped a long, thin cane.

In front of him knelt a boy, probably not even twenty yet, completely naked, head bowed. Even though Snape was only three or four years older, he had far more presence and natural authority than the boy, who was handsome in a bland, predictable way. He waited in a gracefully submissive posture. Seemingly unconcerned by the instrument Snape held. And utterly aroused, Remus couldn’t help noticing. That arousal didn’t flag as he and Snape conversed politely.

Remus needed a minute to take this all in. He hadn’t even known Snape was queer, let alone into this sort of thing. Remus wasn’t a prude or a virgin by any stretch, but caning people in clubs while strangers watched was a little beyond his purview. That didn’t stop his cock from twitching in his trousers. He couldn’t manage to wrench his gaze away, not even when Snape nodded to the boy, who rose and walked calmly to the wall, lifting his arms for Snape to wrap manacles about his wrists. The manacles were attached to rings above his head, giving him just enough slack to be able to struggle. Snape didn’t step away once the shackling was done. Instead, he used his wand to cast something over the boy’s buttocks—a cleansing spell, Remus suspected, although he wasn’t sure why it would be necessary at this point. Then Snape slid his wand into his robes and hovered just behind the younger man, his long-fingered hand trailing over the smooth skin of shoulder to lower back to buttocks. This area Snape lingered on, gently caressing firm, round flesh, the dint where cheek met thigh, the curve of hip. He leaned in, let his breath rush over the boy’s ear and throat and Remus felt himself become fully hard at the thought of what it must feel like.

Snape snaked his hand around, brushing the hard cock now pressed lightly against the wall. The boy tipped his head back slightly in response. This, apparently, was all Snape was looking for; he moved back two steps and to the side, and with a practiced swing of his arm, the cane descended on the unprotected backside in front of him.

Remus winced. He hadn’t anticipated the force of the blow. The boy, for all his calm demeanor, didn’t seem able to prevent his body’s reaction. He bucked a little beneath it, although he almost immediately returned to stillness. He didn’t appear surprised by the strength Snape had employed.

The cane fell again and again. Remus realized the boy’s mouth moved after every strike—counting, no doubt. Snape decorated the boy’s back from shoulder blades to the middle of his thighs, but paid particular attention to the round buttocks, coming back to them again and again until the skin there was little more than a mesh of pink welts.

The boy remained visibly aroused the entire time.

Remus did too.

After a time, Snape stepped away and went to a small table in the corner. He placed the cane on it, picked up one of two glasses of water. He drank deeply, then began unbuttoning his robes. Remus’s breath caught, even as he told himself that this was beyond inappropriate. Not because of the activities—to each his own, he’d always thought—but because it was Snape. And however much he thirsted for the sight of the man, however much Remus craved some intangible connection to a time when he’d had felt safe and secure in his life, in the world, he did not think of Snape as redeemed. Which made this whole thing move from risqué fun to something fundamentally wrong.

But he didn’t leave.

Instead, he watched. He watched as Snape removed not only his robes but the black, high-collared jacket he wore beneath them. Remus had ceased to expect anything but layers on Snape a long time ago; even back at Hogwarts, he’d been a repressed little bastard. That regrettable incident with the _levicorpus_ spell that day after their O.W.L.S. when James had thrown the Slytherin into the air and stripped him to his bare ass in front of a jeering crowd probably hadn’t helped.

Modesty, thy name is Snape.

Interesting, then, that he was now showcasing his sexual activities to a potential crowd of witnesses. Remus would’ve thought he’d find this degrading. It was surprising that Snape found enjoyment in this at all.

Remus had to admit that he’d feel more comfortable if _he_ were enjoying this a little less himself. His feelings for Snape had always been complex: disrespect, even distaste, all mixed together with the guilt of nearly killing him, of not stopping the others from the countless small pranks—and more than a few big ones. Now he had to add sexual interest to the list. He’d never been much into pain for pain’s sake, but any werewolf could throw down rough, and the idea of testing himself against Snape was very interesting indeed.

Beneath his robes, Snape wore a very plain, white button-up shirt. He rolled up the sleeves, the right considerably higher than the left, which perplexed Remus for only a second before he realized that the purpose was to keep the Dark Mark well-hidden. Snape unbuttoned his collar button, and Remus found himself mildly disappointed that he didn’t open his shirt farther.

Snape picked up the second glass and went to the boy. He held the water up, let his partner drink, then traded glass for cane once more. When the boy seemed to hesitate, spoke tentatively, Snape nodded implacably. He paused, and tilted his head in a way that made Remus think he’d asked a question, and the boy finally shook his head. Snape brought the cane down again.

This time the blows were weaker, almost lazy, as if the bulk of the work had been done and now he was simply putting on the finishing touches. The boy had to be in agony anyway. His body lurched wildly under each blow now, and Snape was taking his time, watching carefully, surveying the boy’s cock to ensure the blows weren’t going so far as to kill the sexual aspect of the moment. And after a last swing, one that barely made contact, Snape tossed the cane aside and approached his victim.

He ran his hands over the brutally marked flesh, lowering his head and pressing lips and tongue to each bruise and welt. Unless Remus was much mistaken, Snape hadn’t even broken the skin. And now he rewarded his partner for his perseverance. Snape’s mouth and fingers traced everywhere, slow and determined, almost reverent. Grateful, perhaps, and when he knelt to spread the buttocks and apply tongue to the boy’s puckered asshole, he had an air of genuflection about him.

No wonder he’d cast a cleansing spell earlier, Remus thought, mouth dry at the sight.

The boy was writhing now, though how much was pain and how much was pleasure was anyone’s guess. Snape’s fingers were clenched around the abused buttocks, spreading them wide. Snape was thorough, deliberate—he had always been a believer in the maxim that anything worth doing was worth doing well, Remus remembered sourly.

After a few moments, Snape began to use his fingers, brusquely now, stretching the boy. From his trouser pocket, he pulled a small jar, and began applying lube generously. In less time than Remus would’ve requested, had he been the—no, that was a dangerous train of thought, don’t go there—Snape was opening his trousers and revealing a rather impressive erection that he quickly began to smooth with oil.

Remus hadn’t been paying particular attention back in school when he’d seen Snape naked. The mob and its steadily-growing callousness, the humiliation on Snape’s face, and Remus’s fear of being caught looking at another boy’s cock during that highly volatile situation, had all conspired to ensure that Remus didn’t have any attention to spare for what Snape was packing downstairs. Now he wasn’t quite sure how he’d missed it.

For a man who was downright ugly from certain angles, Snape had an absolutely breathtaking cock.

Remus had to close his eyes for a moment against the thrum of need that sliced through him at the sight. He wanted this. Not the caning, not the public forum. He wanted Snape. Most days of the month, Remus was perfectly happy being on top or bottom, although he had a slightly more developed affection for the latter. For his wolf, however, it was always a fight to see who could top whom; which was why Remus often avoided sex for the week of the full moon. But just now, seeing Snape like this—in control, authoritative…Remus wanted to show Snape that his kind of dominance wasn’t built of polite scene agreements and witnesses. It was a bloody struggle between two competitors, each determined to break the will of the other. Werewolves didn’t care for negotiations or safe words or limits. They fought until someone got fucked.

The full moon was two weeks out. Remus shouldn’t have been thinking like this. He shouldn’t be _feeling_ like this. But he wanted to tear into Snape. He wanted to pound the slender man into the fucking dirt with his cock and fists and teeth.

Oblivious to the struggle for self-control Remus was fighting, Snape entered the boy with a single forceful thrust, sinking balls-deep. The boy’s head fell back and his mouth opened in a groan that Remus could well imagine but not hear. Snape let the boy adjust to his fairly considerable size, and then began to move.

Modest, he might be. It wouldn’t be wrong to call Snape reserved or even repressed in his day to day life and mannerisms.

But he fucked like an animal.

Snape slammed himself into that young body with rolling hips and a cruel grimace. His grip would no doubt leave bruises. He reached up with one hand, buried his fingers in dark hair and yanked backwards, setting his mouth against the column of the neck hard enough that the younger man jerked in his bonds.

Snape’s rhythm was rough, even vicious, but from the fluid movement he used—and the boy’s enthralled reaction—it was plain he knew what he was about. Remus was trembling, he realized, with the need to go to the glass door, push it open, and demand that Snape abandon that poor bruised body and test his strength against someone with a bit more command.

But he also couldn’t look away. Because Snape was elemental like this, raw and elegant at once, even as he slid his hand from the boy’s hair to his throat, even as he fucked him hard enough to put him against the wall, even as he bit down into the muscled arch where neck met shoulder. Snape didn’t touch the boy’s cock; but then, it didn’t seem that he needed to. Snape’s mouth was moving, and Remus wished he could hear that silky, sexy voice—the one beauty all the marauders could agree he truly possessed in excess of anyone else in school—that deep, rich, smug voice speaking absolutely filthy things, no doubt warning the boy not to come yet, not until Snape was done driving that hard cock deep inside his ass, and Remus couldn’t help putting his hand over his trousers, pressing his palm against his rigid length.

God, it felt good. He imagined what it would be like if he did go in there and start something. If he lost, it would be Snape’s hand on _his_ cock, and Snape’s teeth biting into _his_ shoulder, and Snape’s voice at _his_ ear saying _I’m going to fuck you Remus, I’m going to fuck you until you scream, with my hard cock stretching you open, splitting you open, while you beg for more like the little whore you are, you love it, the way I’ll hurt you and that still won’t make you say no, you love that I make you this pathetic, that I break you down until all you can do is beg me to ream you until you can’t take anymore, beg me Remus, beg me to fuck you, know that you would do anything to have my cock driving in your ass right now._

Or Remus would win, and Snape would be the one begging, his pale legs spread, hands clutching, arse open…

Remus came like a freight train, in his pants as if he were a teenager, barely able to stay on his feet. He found a bench only a few feet from the glass wall that separated him from Snape. It was too close, would make him too visible, but he simply couldn’t stand any longer. It was the bench or the floor.

He fell more than sat, afterglow riding him hard. Even staying upright felt like effort; he wanted so damn badly to just lie down and sleep. He couldn’t remember ever coming like that before. As he absently watched, his mind hazy, he was vaguely aware of the boy jetting come across the wall without Snape even needing to touch him his erection.

Snape came not long after, and this Remus forced himself to pay attention to. He wanted to remember those black eyes glittering before falling shut, the thin lips parted with ragged breaths, the line that formed between his eyebrows. He’d gotten downright violent in those last few thrusts. It was enough to make Remus wince, but the boy was almost slack in the shackles now, and seemed beyond caring.

Snape recovered quickly, far more quickly than his partner, and Remus watched as he pulled out and went directly to the small table. Taking up his wand, he conjured a bowl and a cloth, then filled the bowl with water. Remus could see the steam as Snape returned to the boy’s side and proceeded to set the bowl levitating. With stunningly gentle hands, he began to wash the boy. He didn’t speak, simply soothed the wounds with heat and soft fabric. Almost tenderly.

He pulled his wand out, gesturing with it to the boy’s back, saying something. Offering a healing spell? The response was virulent and immediately negative. Snape’s lips curved slightly, and he put his wand away without casting anything. He touched the boy’s back, looking faintly pleased.

Remus felt vaguely disgusted with himself for wishing he were the recipient of that approval, that carefully affectionate touch.

When the boy had his legs back, Snape released him, letting him lean against him as he found his balance without the shackles. The boy’s body language was entirely beseeching and grateful now; he’d enjoyed himself thoroughly, Remus thought, a little bitterly. Snape was shaking his head, and then, in the middle of the motion, went absolutely still, his face turned in Remus’s direction.

Oh, fuck.

For a moment, Remus considered running. Just getting up and getting out. Getting to the alley where he could apparate. Snape would dress first, he was sure. Remus had time to escape. But two things held him back. First, Snape had been a Death Eater and a spy, and even if neither of those things were enough to enable him to find people who didn’t want to be found, he was one of the most intelligent men Remus had ever known. Running now didn’t mean Snape wouldn’t get a confrontation if he wanted one; he would just track Remus down elsewhere.

And second? Remus wasn’t sure he wanted to avoid whatever Snape was about to say. Not when it could lead to…oh, hell. Now that he’d come and his higher brain function had returned, reality asserted itself. This couldn’t lead to anything. Remus had ethics, he reminded himself, and he had to respect himself in the morning, so to speak, and this had gone far enough, that was for damn sure. This was _Snape_ , and even if he’d come to their side in the end, Remus didn’t fool himself into thinking the man had anything but darkness inside him. There was something broken behind those black eyes, a need for power and control that Remus simply didn’t understand. That he couldn’t afford to get wrapped up in. A condescending, mocking interview would remind him of Snape’s more unbearable personality quirks easily enough, and he would be able to walk away without regrets.

So he didn’t run. Instead, he forced himself to stand. With a very subtle flick of his wand, he cleaned up the semen that had coated his pants.

Snape was ignoring the boy entirely now in favor of staring at Remus. There was no doubt he’d been recognized. Snape didn’t have the look of someone trying to search his memory or get a better look. No, it was sheer shock and growing rage on his face. The boy glanced in Remus’s direction, then apparently decided he didn’t want any part of whatever had put that expression on Snape’s face. He nodded, said something, and hustled over to his clothes. He dressed in record time, and fled, but not before aiming a furious glance in Remus’s direction.

Remus went to the doorway. The small rooms were far quieter than the common space; he would hear anything Snape said very easily.

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately, if only with partial honesty. “I had no right to watch.”

Snape turned away, going to the small table and getting dressed. He pulled robes on quickly, banished everything on the table, and took a moment to stare at the wall.

“You followed me here?”

“I saw you on the street. Random coincidence. And yes, I followed you. I thought…”

“Thought I might be up to my old tricks? I find it hard to believe that even you would have missed the Dark Lord’s demise.”

“That’s not why I followed you.”

“Why, then?”

 _I wanted you._ But he couldn’t say that, could he? “I don’t know,” he said finally. “You’re like…I mean, you make me remember…”

Now Snape turned, his expression blank. “Spit it out, Lupin, for crying out loud. Your inability to articulate basic thoughts is not appealing.”

Remus chuckled. He couldn’t help it. It was just so _Snape._

Of course, being Snape, he was pissed off by the chuckle. But somewhere along the line, Snape had learned a measure of self-control. His knuckles tightened and his eyes narrowed, but nothing else really changed. Not for the first time, Remus wondered what it had been like at Lord Voldemort’s knee. Must’ve really been something, for Snape’s sharp tongue and temper to learn some caution.

“You make me remember Hogwarts,” Remus said simply. “I’ve lost…”

Remus had to stop a moment. His throat had tightened. What the hell was wrong with him today? First he was lusting after Snape, and now nearly crying in front of him? Fuck.

“I’ve lost everyone,” he said quietly. “You’re not my friend, but you’re the last remnant of home.”

Snape didn’t say anything for a long time. “That’s why you followed me?”

“Yes.”

“How very sentimental of you.”

“I suppose it is.”

“Why did you stay? And watch?”

Remus could barely get the words past his dry lips. “Curiosity, at first, I think.” He cleared his throat. “And then, because I…”

Snape waited, one black eyebrow lifted.

“I wanted to see you. I wanted to know what you were like.”

Snape’s expression darkened, but Remus didn’t think it was only anger. “And your conclusion, Lupin?” Snape asked, that dark voice deepening, almost fucking purring, and Remus felt his cock twitch. Snape knew exactly what his voice could do, Remus realized. Snape even smirked as he continued speaking. “What am I like?”

“You’re an animal,” Remus whispered.

“Sounds like something a werewolf could appreciate,” Snape mused. He came toward Remus slowly, his stride graceful, the smirk fading a bit. “Did you appreciate it?”

Remus was hard. Just like that, only minutes after a release, with just those four words in that smooth, silky voice. “Yes,” Remus managed. “I…wanted…you.”

“You wanted me,” Snape repeated skeptically.

“Yes,” Remus said. “I want you.”

Snape didn’t miss the shift from past tense to present. It was there in his gaze. And for a heartbeat, something flashed in those black eyes. Something at once desperate and aching. It was gone so quickly that Remus wasn’t sure exactly what the word for it was.

“Do you think if I fuck you it will be like bringing them back?” Snape asked, sounding almost academic. As if mildly curious about someone else’s research project.

“Not…no. It’s just that you remind me…”

“I’m intrigued.”

Remus felt hope light in his chest. God, he wanted to move closer. He wanted to lift a hand, stroke fingers over that hard jaw. He wondered if Snape would take his shirt off for him. If he would get to see that lean body naked. There was even curiosity about the Dark Mark, about what it would look like, taste like.

“Intrigued?” Remus asked, trying not to sound like he was waiting on tenterhooks.

“By how much you want to go back to that time,” Snape said, his eyes on where Remus’s robes were bulging.

“Oh?”

“What must that be like?” Snape asked, his voice suddenly flat, and Remus refocused on something besides the desire flooding his veins. Snape just kept going. “You know, the ones you’ve lost, those dear friends? They humiliated me simply because they could. And now you, one of my childhood enemies, the werewolf that nearly killed me, no less, show up out of nowhere and say you want to fuck me because I remind you of those cherished memories. Do you think I’m that stupid?”

That silky voice had gone hard and quiet.

“No.” Remus paused. “No. It’s not…that’s not what I meant. That’s not _how_ I meant it.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No. You’re twisting my words.”

“Hardly necessary in this case.” Snape studied him. “The noble Remus Lupin. Dumbledore’s voice of reason, kindness personified. I wonder what he’d think of you now, standing here with this story. What’s the point of this game, then? Some last bit of revenge you’d like to extract because I looked at you wrong one day in class?”

“I suppose it would make more sense to you that way. But that isn’t it.” The cynicism of Snape’s reaction, and the fact that Snape appeared to wholeheartedly believe it, simply made him ache. Such harm they had done, Remus mused. He loved James, Lily, Peter, and yes, even Sirius. He would always love them, no matter what happened or how. But he wasn’t so weak or blind anymore about who they’d all been and the things they’d been capable of, himself included. He knew the harm that the casual cruelty of children could do. He was looking at it.

He wished one of his parents had seen him do nothing in the face of such bullying and given him a proper belt for it. He’d have been better for it.

“No?” Snape asked. “Let’s hear another explanation for your presence here, then. But you should make this one a little more believable.”

“I don’t mean it like that. I don’t want to humiliate you. I want…” _Comfort._

“I won’t let you do it again,” Snape said. Was that exhaustion in his voice? Remus refused to believe it was hurt. The Snape in front of him, sharp and honed by war and death, seemed too edged for Remus to get under that shield. And he couldn’t afford to think about it now, Remus realized, noticing that Snape had drawn his wand. Remus shifted uncomfortably. Even if his own wand had already been out in his hand, he knew it would do no good. He couldn’t take Snape alone. If it came down to a duel, he would lose. He had neither the skill nor the blood thirst to walk away the winner in this kind of fight.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Remus said quietly.

“Because you don’t have the courage to act alone?” Snape sneered.

“Because I don’t want to. I’ve never wanted to hurt you. I’ve disliked you, yes. At times very strenuously, but I’ve never wanted to hurt you.”

Did Snape believe him? The only clue was in the fatigue in those black eyes. Fatigue that no doubt greatly resembled Remus’s. How pathetically weary they both were. Both alone and trying desperately not to be.

“Why did you need that? To hit the boy, I mean?”

For a long moment, it seemed Snape wouldn’t answer. Then he murmured, “It keeps me afloat.”

He caught Remus’s look, and snarled, “Don’t you feel sorry for me. I’m not the one following enemies down alleys just to remember the halcyon days.”

“No, you’re just having sex with strangers to ‘stay afloat,’” Remus said mildly.

“I’m holding on until I’m needed,” Snape bit out.

“Needed for something specific?” Remus tilted his head, somewhat surprised Snape was still answering him. “What is it?”

“The same thing that you hold on for, I imagine,” Snape said.

Remus blinked. Not just because Snape was clearly aware that on some level, they were both struggling to stay at the surface of a very dark lake. But also because it couldn’t be true. It simply couldn’t be. The only thing Remus had left to hold onto was Harry. His best friend’s child. Had Dumbledore let him, he’d have taken the boy in.

“Harry?” Remus whispered, more to himself than Snape, doubting the connection, but Snape’s gaze sharpened. “James’s Harry?”

As if there could be another one? Remus felt stupid for asking, but it just seemed so improbable. Why would Snape be waiting for Harry to need him?

But mentioning James was a mistake they couldn’t come back from. Snape’s mouth twisted bitterly. The moment was abruptly over, and Snape drew himself up to his full six feet and change height.

“If you’ll stop blocking the way, Lupin, I’ll be going.”

Remus let his eyes trace over Snape’s face and body one last time. He saw Snape’s hand tighten on his wand at the perusal, and immediately backed toward the doorway before he got cursed. Snape approached cautiously, still expecting an attack.

“Why are you holding onto Harry?” Remus asked.

“I chose my side,” Snape said impatiently. “And not unlike certain unwanted werewolves, those who bring harm with them have a tendency to return. And when He does, the world…” He sighed. “Fuck, Lupin, move. I won’t ask again.”

Remus moved. Snape passed him and started toward the hallway. A tendency to return? What the hell did that mean? Remus found himself following, back through the painfully loud music, where Snape tapped his wand against a black box Remus hadn’t noticed before. White lettering swept across the box, spelling out _Severus Snape._ Snape glanced briefly at Lupin, made a face, tapped again, and the readout changed to _Severus Snape and Guest_. Then he shoved through the black door into the comparatively blinding sunshine. They both stalled, blinking.

Remus used the time he had. “And until then?” he asked desperately. _Let Snape have an answer I can live with._ “Until Harry needs us and whatever else you’re talking about happens?”

 Snape didn’t look at him. “What do you think, you fool? You keep following enemies into alleys. I keep fucking strangers in dark rooms. We tread water.”

Snape headed back the way he’d come, leaving Remus standing on the painted, intertwined cats on the pavement, musing over Snape’s words. _Tread water._ Knowing Snape was also trying not to drown eased him somehow. The loneliness, the exhaustion, were somehow easier to bear.

“Will you be here next week?” Remus asked quietly.

Snape kept walking, not even bothering to glance back. “Yes.”

*

Remus dithered.

He sat alone in his flat, a half-eaten bowl of Muggle cereal in front of him, telling himself that he had no intention of going back. He had no interest in any of it, he was very busy, he had chores to do, and besides, Snape had made it perfectly clear that he would never let Remus…didn’t matter what Snape would or wouldn’t do, because Remus wasn’t going back.

He had laundry to do. So much laundry.

Or, it was time to get a job. He’d had to leave his a couple months ago when the owner got suspicious that he was missing work several days a month. Yes, a job was a much better excuse, and Remus latched onto it like the proverbial dog with a bone. It had the added benefit of being true; what little money he had was running thin. He should definitely be getting a job, not thinking about Severus Snape with a cane in one hand, slowly unzipping his trousers with the other…

But it didn’t matter how much he told himself he didn’t want that, because there was one incontrovertible fact: in the last six days, he’d taken himself in hand and come upwards of a dozen times with some variation of that image in his mind. And he was getting tired of lying to himself.

So on Monday, with his nerves coursing with electricity, Remus put on his long coat, stowed his wand in his pocket, and apparated into the alley beside the club with the white cat icon on the ground.

The day was gray, a little cool, somewhat damp. No one else stood in the alley. He took a deep breath, noticed that his wand shook faintly as he lifted it, and tapped the bricks.

The door appeared, and he went inside.

Remus followed the same path he had before, down the obscenely loud hallway, back into the large, dark common area surrounded by glass-fronted little rooms. He took a slow walk around the perimeter, looking for the familiar lean build, but Snape wasn’t there. After a moment’s hesitation, he found a bench with a perfect view of the hallway so he could see anyone who came or went, and settled in to wait.

And while he waited, he wondered again why a man as intensely private as Snape would choose to have sex in front of others. For a man who had suffered through a rather traumatizing event with humiliating public nudity, this seemed like a self-destructive choice.

Remus frowned. Maybe that was the point.

Snape entered with his customary command of a room; there were more people here this time, one of whom was the boy Snape had been with before. Remus watched carefully as the boy was politely rebuffed. For some reason, this made Remus’s lips twitch.

Instead, Snape chose an older man, probably in his mid-thirties, dark-haired and well-built. The two men stood close together, speaking into each other’s ears, the man nodding every so often as Snape spoke. Finally Snape turned and headed for the same room he’d used the last time, leaving the man to follow or not.

Remus wasn’t surprised that the man followed. Why wouldn’t he? The severe hair, the pale skin, the sternly-cut black robes that made him look more like an ascetic priest than a wizard—none of this shouted _sex_ per se, but Snape had always possessed a certain aura of potential energy. Standing in his presence, you were never quite sure how he would react to something, and just by looking at him, you knew that one of those potential reactions might always be brutal, swift violence.

To be around him was to walk on an edge, and for some (not Remus, he assured himself, truly he wasn’t one of them) that was exciting.

Snape paused at the doorway, turning to gesture his partner in before him, and then went still, his face turned in Remus’s direction. For a long moment, they stared at each other. Then, hardly able to believe he was doing so, Remus rose. He crossed the twenty feet that separated them, and silently went to the same bench he’d sat on last time.

All too aware that Snape had shifted to keep him in view, Remus sat and looked patiently through the glass at the man Snape had sent into the small room ahead of him. When Snape walked toward the bench, Remus waited patiently.

“What are you doing here?” Snape hissed.

“I’m watching you fuck strangers,” Remus replied calmly. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? I found watching you surprisingly pleasant last week. So by all means.” He glanced up at him, and though his next words were mild in tone, they were nevertheless a command. “Please continue.”

It seemed to Remus at first that Snape wouldn’t move. But finally he turned and went in, shoulders tight as he went to the small table and began removing his robes in short, jerky motions.

Remus didn’t look at the man that Snape then manacled. He had eyes only for long limbs and unevenly-folded sleeves and black boots and lank hair scraped back to reveal high cheekbones. The other man might as well have vanished; in Remus’s mind, when Snape ran his hands over flesh, it was his own, and when Snape’s lips traced over a throat, it was his Adam’s apple that was brushed.

He was already hard.

The high-pitched whistle of the cane descending was easier to hear from here, but Snape seemed to tire of that quickly. After far fewer strikes than he’d used on the boy, he was releasing the man from the shackles. He instead conjured a collar that he buckled around the man’s neck. A leash was then attached, and Snape proceeded to take the man for a walk around the small room. At Snape’s command, he licked Snape’s boots, then rolled over onto his back and thrust his hips repeatedly into empty space. His face was turning red, and his cock was dripping.

The cane was exchanged for a whip, and Snape gave the man a few sharp cracks to get his attention. Snape was speaking in that whiskey, midnight voice of his, and even though Remus couldn’t hear it, just seeing his lips move made him ache with desire. Again, he imagined the words: _are you an obedient pet, Lupin? Will you be my little doggie? You already follow me around, so why not wear the leash? Why not admit what you are: desperate for me. Begging for a fuck. Why don’t you come in here and take his place? Get down on all fours in front of me and whine and beg and roll over, and be the pathetic little whore we both know you are, and maybe, if you’re lucky, I’ll give you a fuck you won’t forget. We’ll rut like animals together, and in the end, you’ll be grateful I opened your eyes to what you really are._

At some point, he realized dimly, he’d opened his trousers and pushed his hand inside. He was stroking himself, feeling the precome dotting the tip of his erection, and when he looked up, he noticed that the man was on his knees, face resting on the ground, holding his buttocks up high as Snape whaled at him with the whip.

Snape paused, arm raised, and abruptly looked over at Remus, who didn’t bother to hide what he was doing. His stomach clenched—he had no idea how Snape would take it—but he couldn’t stop now if he tried.

Their eyes met.

Snape tossed the whip aside, tore open his trousers, and pulled his cock out. Without breaking eye contact, he stepped back to lean against the far wall. He spoke words Remus couldn’t hear, and the man eagerly rose, crawling to kneel at Snape’s feet, and lifted his mouth.

Snape’s features were hard, his lips tight, eyes glittering, and he stood remarkably still for a man whose cock was being sucked. Remus couldn’t tear his eyes away from that face, even as he began to get close. His palm wasn’t enough, and his mouth felt empty; all he wanted was to walk in there, shove the other man out of the way, and take over, but he didn’t move. He simply tightened his fingers and struggled to stay quiet.

Snape didn’t look away either. After a minute, his fingers speared into the other man’s hair, forming fists, and his hips began to move. He became rougher quickly when it appeared his partner wouldn’t complain, and before long all Remus could do was stare as Snape, once again, was stripped down to his most wild essentials: his mouth opened and he seemed to gasp for air between rosy lips, his forearms were corded with muscle as he clenched his hands, and his lean hips moved beautifully, snapping at the end, fucking the face of a complete stranger while Remus watched.

Then Snape’s eyes were finally closing, his head tilting back, spine arching, body jerking, and the sight of him, all restraint abandoned, lovely in his release, was poetry.

The vision abruptly changed; now it was Snape on his knees before Remus. It was Snape on a leash. Snape begging and panting and losing control. And with this thought in his mind, he came.

He sat there, shaking, recovering. He’d closed his eyes at some point, and when he opened them, Snape was straightening away from the wall, buttoning his trousers. He spoke to the man kneeling at his feet, prompting him to rise. Snape grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him across the small room viciously, almost knocking him off his feet, slamming him against the glass wall hard enough that it rattled a little. And Remus felt an overwhelming wave of anger rush over him as Snape’s hand lowered to grasp the man’s cock. That fist began to work, and that thin mouth opened, spewing all sorts of sexy filth, Remus was sure, but Snape’s eyes were on his partner now instead of Remus, so it wasn’t for him.

It should’ve been for him.

He couldn’t watch this.

He put his clothes in order and stood. The motion should’ve attracted Snape’s eyes; the fact that it did not meant that Snape was deliberately ignoring him.

Remus left, feeling cold.

But the next week, he went back.

*

They fell into a strange sort of routine over the following weeks. Snape always picked the third player in their little triangle, but after a while, he would occasionally glance at Remus as if silently asking his opinion. He would tilt his head at a lean boy as if saying _this one?_ and Remus would nod. The fact that Snape was asking at all felt like liquid gold in his belly. Even if he did it with a slight sneer.

The scene always included a whip or a cane or some form of bodily abuse; this was Snape’s non-negotiable. In fact, once Remus was close enough to hear a young man say that he wasn’t too fond of being struck, and Snape had walked away without letting him finish the sentence. It was what he came to the club for, what he craved. To hurt someone else in a way which, Remus was beginning to suspect, he desperately wanted to be hurt himself.

Remus didn’t mind it rough, but he didn’t particularly want to be hurt. The wolf reacted badly to that sort of thing. But as soon as the niggling voice in his mind began wondering if the problem was that Snape _did,_ his wolf nearly whined with excitement.

As time passed, Remus began to wonder if Snape was even a natural dominant; he was wild and cruel and authoritative, but there was always something just a little bit angry about the whole thing. A little bit resentful. As if a part of him was frustrated that the body receiving the lashes didn’t fight back and put the pain where it belonged. But then, what did a man who wanted to be punished do when he didn’t trust a single living soul to wield the weapon?

Remus had a feeling that every Monday afternoon, he was looking at the answer. And he searched for evidence that his theory was correct, finding it here and there where Snape would dangle the whip in front of someone as if daring him to take it. Where Snape’s lips formed words that looked like _do you wish you could hurt me like I’m hurting you?_ It began to seem real, that Snape wanted that which he only gave to others. The idea clung to Remus. It sped his breath.

And then there was this exchange, which had happened a month ago, when one of their thirds had asked Snape who Remus was. Testing his theory a bit, Remus had answered for Snape.

“I’m here to watch him fuck strangers,” Remus replied calmly. “Having him perform like that, for my pleasure, is quite arousing.” He glanced up at Snape, and though his next words were mild in tone, they were nevertheless a command. “Please me again. Now.”

There’d been confusion and reluctance and annoyance in Snape’s gaze then. But when that had gone, Remus had also seen what he was looking for—lust and something else, something that looked perilously close to gratification.

And Snape had obeyed.

Perhaps they were better suited than Remus had thought.

But he didn’t rock the boat; he’d come to require these interludes, and the thought of doing or saying anything that made Snape disappear left him uneasy.

So Remus watched Snape fuck strangers, and somehow their eyes would meet during their moments of completion, even if they occurred minutes apart, and in that they bought another week’s worth of surfacing.

*

On a Monday in late August, nearly three months after it had begun, Snape did not immediately begin prowling for their third when he arrived. Instead, he came and sat down beside Remus on what Remus had begun to think of as _their_ bench.

Surprised and pleased by this, Remus said nothing, and Snape didn’t either. For several long minutes they sat together, and the coil of excitement in Remus’s body got tighter with every second.

“I won’t be back next week,” Snape said finally, quietly.

Remus’s mouth went dry. The excitement became anxiety. “Going on vacation?”

“No.”

“The week after…”

“No. I won’t be back for some time, if ever. I’m letting my membership lapse. You’ll need to purchase one of your own if you intend to return since you can’t come as my guest any longer.”

“Oh.” Remus was shocked by how powerful his disappointment was. It didn’t only affect his cock, either. He felt it in his chest. It made him angry, actually, and then the anger morphed into something else. Remus fought it hard, clenching his teeth against the need to grab, to possess. At least once.

Snape was quiet for another long span, then seemed to get frustrated. He stood abruptly but jolted when Remus reached out and took his wrist.

“Come with me,” Remus said quietly.

He rose in turn and headed for the door to the club. Something relaxed in him when he felt Snape follow without resistance.

Outside in the hot summer sun, Remus couldn’t wait anymore. He spun, putting his hands on Snape’s cheeks, and tugged the other man in for a kiss. It was awkward at first, dry and forced, and just when Remus began to despair that it was only the presence of a third that gave them their peace, Snape began to respond.

Their lips opened. Tongues began to duel. In moments, Remus felt the hot, slick claws of desire digging into him, and deep inside, in the place where the wolf lived, a pulse seemed to rise in him. He shoved Snape against the brick wall, delighting in the harsh exhale brought about. His hands developed a will of their own, tearing fabric as he pulled robes away. He wanted to bite that elegant neck, wanted to use his teeth to rip at the high collar, but he couldn’t seem to release Snape’s mouth, which was wet and warm and demanding.

Then his fingers found skin, having somehow gotten past Snape’s shirt, soft skin over firm muscle, and Remus couldn’t do this here, not in an alley, not in the bright daylight.

“We’re apparating,” Remus said, giving Snape only a heartbeat to adjust to the idea before turning on the spot with that lean body still tight in his arms.

Upon arrival in Remus’s flat, Snape wrenched away, his wand drawn, if not pointed. He looked around with narrowed eyes, waiting for an attack that never came.

So cautious he was, so suspicious, Remus thought. He gave Snape time to check the rooms while he casually removed his robes and began to unbutton his shirt. Snape checked his wards, tried doors and windows, opened a drawer here and there. Remus stifled a smile when he even heard cabinet doors in his kitchen opening and closing. Then Snape was returning to the living room, seeming almost disappointed.

“You were expecting something other than werewolves here?” Remus asked politely.

Snape simply prowled around the edge of the room like a caged lion, taking in shabby furnishings and the small fireplace, put to good use on the nights immediately following a full moon. He’d slid his wand pack into his robes, but his hands kept forming fists and then releasing.

“Why did you bring us here?” he snarled. “We could’ve stayed there. There was a boy—”

“I’m tired of playing games,” Remus said. “I think I’ve figured out what you want now. And I think I’m ready to give it to you.”

Snape delivered a laugh that was at once deep and dark and absolutely delighted. “You think so, do you, Lupin? Then get on your knees, and we’ll find out if you’re right.”

“No,” Remus said. “We won’t be doing this by your rules.”

Snape went very still. “That’s the only way I do things.”

“That’s the only way you _have_ done things. That doesn’t mean this can’t be different.”

Snape studied him for the longest time, his body tense. Tense, Remus thought then, was an understatement. The man was practically vibrating.

“There will be no differences,” Snape said finally.

“Is that because you don’t want there to be or because you don’t trust me?”

Snape opened his mouth, then closed it again. Remus let him stand there, well aware that Snape was on the verge of bolting. He kept his voice even and soft, his manner firm but non-confrontational.

“Let me put it this way,” Remus said. “I want you. But I don’t get off on my own pain or being watched by strangers when I’m vulnerable. I thought at first that you did, but I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re not quite how you present yourself.”

“Oh?” Snape asked, voice low and dangerous. “And how am I really?”

“I rather think you’d prefer someone who might have a chance at beating you at your own game. However much you might want it, you can’t bend a knee unless you’re made to. I’m willing to try.”

Snape’s breath stopped. For a moment, Remus thought he’d pushed too hard, too fast, and clenched his teeth against the regret. Then Snape took a lurching step forward.

“I don’t trust you,” he said, and the helpless quality in his words inflamed Remus.

“Whether you do or not,” Remus bit out, “I want to fuck you. So I’m going to count to three, and then I’m going to be done holding back. If you don’t want that, leave. Now. But if you do, then stay, and you’ll find out just how much of an animal a werewolf can be. One.”

Snape swallowed. His eyes went to the front door then back to Remus. “I can’t,” he whispered.

“Two.”

Snape was shaking. Remus heard a growl lift from his chest at the knowledge, and he rocked forward on his toes. Never had he felt the wolf this strongly in his blood away from a moon, or maybe it was just Snape, just this desire, stoking madness and bringing him to the edge.

By the time he got out “Three,” Remus was already on him.

He shoved Snape back, into the wall, hard enough that picture frames rattled. He drove their mouths together, sucking the tongue that filled his mouth. They pulled at each other, heaved, and yanked, bit and sucked and left marks that wouldn’t disappear for days.

Remus had been right. Snape had an inherent desire to be mastered, but he’d paid too dearly for it in the past. He couldn’t just give in. He didn’t know how.

So they grappled. Remus wrenched Snape’s hands over his head, held them there with one of his own, and used the other to plunge into the thick black hair and yank. When the long white throat was revealed, Remus sank teeth in. Snape jolted, struggled. Remus didn’t care. Unless Snape said no, unless he fucking _begged_ Remus to stop _,_ this was going to happen.

A whispered spell, and Snape was pinned to the wall. It faded a heartbeat later as Snape cancelled it wordlessly. Snape threw an elbow; Remus dodged. Snape’s robes were dragged off, his shirt buttons wrenched away to ping on the floor, the thin chest finally bared. Remus took his fill. He captured small brown nipples, biting and chewing and tonguing until Snape bucked against him. He wasn’t making noise. Remus planned to change that. He knelt, and Snape started to use the higher ground to his advantage, but Remus wrapped his hand around the back of one knee and pulled, knocking his legs out from under him. Remus caught him.

“I won’t let you fall,” he growled. _I won’t let you go, either. Not until this is done._

He didn’t know if it was fear or pride that kept Snape struggling. They fought dirty, getting sweaty, breathing hard. Remus was stronger, but Snape was like wire, fluid and more agile. They were both fully aroused, cheating by taking spare moments here and there in the battle to rut against each other.

Remus outweighed him too, if not by all that much. He had Snape under him, flat on his back, and somewhere Snape had lost his shirt entirely. Remus pressed his mouth to every inch of flesh, against each rib and divot. Snape was surprisingly better formed than he’d have thought—a life of violence apparently required strength and endurance. Not skinny so much as very lean. And Remus took advantage of it now, rubbing their chests together, thrilling in the feel of the body beneath his, even as Snape tried to throw him off and thrust against him at the same time.

The wolf inside was half-mad at the challenge to his dominance. The part that was all too human recognized the ambivalence on Snape’s features. He craved being beaten. He also couldn’t bear the idea of it.

Remus was very nearly past the point of caring. In a duel of wands, Snape would’ve wiped the floor with him. In a physical confrontation, Remus had the edge. He had no intention of letting Snape get away. Oh, no. Remus was going to fuck him and it was going to be violent and raw and dirty. And Snape would take it all before they were done.

He was going to make Snape scream.

He was shaking now, tearing at Snape’s trousers, losing another button, dragging the zip down in a single yank. Remus buried his face in half-revealed curls, nipping at the hollow of a hipbone. Snape was shoving at his shoulders, trying to slide onto his side, and Remus let him slither away, content to hold onto his clothing so that he was abruptly tripped up by boots and trousers. Snape wrenched, even as Remus yanked hard, pulling the struggling body back beneath him. He felt Snape’s bare buttocks beneath his cock and groaned. He thrust several times between firm cheeks, hard enough that he scooted them both forward a few inches.

Snape arched into the movement. His head came back, and Remus found a shoulder blade to lick and kiss. Snape tried to lift his upper body on his arms—nice arms, Remus thought hazily—and that couldn’t be allowed to happen. Remus grabbed slender wrists and wrenched. Snape fell forward, his cheek hitting the floor with a slam hard enough that there would no doubt be bruises. In fact, he seemed a little dazed by the force of it, and Remus used the opportunity to pull his wand and deprive Snape of the rest of his clothing. Then he kicked his own shoes off and shoved down his trousers.

Snape blinked, became more alert. He sent back an elbow that, had Remus not been in the process of bending away already for leverage, probably would’ve broken his nose. Remus recaptured his wrists, no doubt hurting his shoulders now, and gripped them behind his back. He saw the Dark Mark and bit down, drawing blood.

Snape cried out, body going tight as a bow string. “Remus,” he managed, nearly begged, and Remus loved the sound of it, even as he wasn’t sure what Snape was begging _for._ To fuck or not to fuck: that was the real question.

“Mine,” he said, voice almost unrecognizable.

“I’m not,” Snape said, sounding panicked.

“For today you are.”

Remus rocked back on his heels, wedging himself between Snape’s legs after a brief scuffle, and then he used his dearly-won leverage to pull Snape back by his wrists. It forced Snape to bend in the middle, lifting his arse and planting his face right back down on the floor. Now he gave a mighty lurch, nearly dislocating his shoulders, his feet scrambling on hardwood floors that gave no purchase. No one could ever say that Severus Snape gave it up easy, and that lovely, round arse quivered with his efforts to get away.

The view made liquid drip from Remus’s cock. He summoned lube, opened the jar and Snape’s efforts redoubled.

Remus slapped his hand against one cheek, hard enough that his palm stung, and Snape abruptly stilled.

“Don’t,” he said, the word nearly breaking.

Remus hit him again, harder, a red imprint of his hand bright against the white flesh. “Say it again if you truly mean it. Otherwise, shut the fuck up.”

He hit him again.

Snape gave a strangled moan, and Remus took that as a sign that he’d read Snape right. He lit into him, spanking over and over, and when his hand could take no more, he summoned a hairbrush and began again. Soon the backside in front of him was thoroughly welted and bruised, purple and hot to the touch.

“You’ll submit,” Remus said, his cock so hard that every small jerk and shudder of Snape’s body against his was as good as a hand squeezing him. He’d left higher thought a while ago. Now there was only this, this need to prove to Snape that he was _his,_ that he had no choice but to bend or be broken. And Snape didn’t ask to be released again. His long, lean body moved with the blows, sinuously, almost beautiful, and every now and then, on a particularly brutal slap, he’d emit a rough groan that would make Remus propel the head of his cock against the spot between Snape’s balls and buttocks.

Only when Snape’s gasps became thick and nearly continuous, when Remus suspected that if he went any further he would do real damage, did the spanking stop. Snape quivered beneath him, and Remus released his wrists, unconcerned that he would move. And he didn’t. He lay, his torso heaving with hard breathing, groin resting on Remus’s thighs, legs spread about Remus’s thighs, arse in the air, all defiance subdued.

Remus slicked his fingers with lube and stabbed one into Snape’s hole with no small amount of force. Snape shuddered but otherwise didn’t move. Remus worked quickly but thoroughly, adding a second finger and scissoring, tugging at the edges of that sweet muscle, pulling and prodding and watching the whole time as the flesh slowly began to stretch. A third finger went in, making Snape release a sharp exhale.

“Do you want this?” Remus asked tightly, removing his fingers and slicking his cock.

“Fuck you,” Snape ground out.

“Do you want this?” Remus snapped, slapping again on the bruised flesh before him. Snape’s back arched hard at the pain. “Say it or get out.”

“Do it,” Snape yelled. “All right? Just do it!”

And Remus shoved his cock into Snape’s hole with as much force as he could manage, making the man beneath him buck and cry out. The tightness of Snape’s body stole the air from his lungs, and he thought he might even have felt him tear, but he couldn’t stop now. He was a mad, wild thing, fucking hard, driving Snape forward across the floor, reveling in the sobbing breaths and struggling of the body beneath him.

He thrust like fury, over and over, feral and violent, an animal in truth. The last remnant of humanity in his brain whispered the word _rape,_ and he tuned in just long enough to make sense of Snape’s mindless whispers: _yes, yes, please, yes._

And so, with that permission, he lost himself in the scraping muscle surrounding him, the velvet feel of the inside, the clenching of arse and the scent and taste of sweat and blood on his tongue. He’d bitten Snape again somewhere in the whirlwind, hard enough that he thought liquid was smeared across his face, and he grabbed Snape’s thighs, wrenching them open, pounding now, staring down at the pink ring of flesh where his cock disappeared and reappeared until his balls tightened. He reached a hand underneath, found Snape’s cock iron hard and dripping, and gripped tightly. Snape trembled and thrust and reared up and forced himself back on the rampaging cock inside him so hard that Remus’s eyes absolutely, fucking rolled back in his head.

And then Snape’s abused body convulsed, and his arsehole tightened like a vise, and he came with a scream that made his velvet voice hoarse.

Knowing that Remus had done that—the scream, the desperation, the helpless orgasm ending in the warm come on his fingers—was all it took. Remus came howling, his last few thrusts ripping Snape practically in half, bringing forth another cry, this time of pain no doubt, but he thrilled in it, laughed with it, shook with it until he collapsed.

All of Remus’s strength disappeared. He had nothing left; he’d pumped all of himself into Snape. He couldn’t even lift a hand to brush hair off his forehead. His throat burned as he breathed. His eyelids refused to move.

They lay together for who knew how long, Snape trembling and occasionally sniffing. Remus could tell by his breathing that he was trying desperately not to cry. “You can,” he whispered. “If you need to.”

Maybe he did; now and then in the next minutes, Remus thought he must be, but then, Snape had always been intensely private, and he didn’t make any noise, didn’t roll over to be held or ask for comfort in any way, so Remus would never really be sure. After a while he slid out from under Remus, moving as if something had broken inside of him. He looked a mess: bruises were already forming on his hips, left cheek, and wrists; the purple welts were dark and thick and vicious; and heavy rivulets of blood still flowed from between his thighs and from a deeply chewed bite on his shoulder. All told, Remus felt rather appalled at himself.

“Stay here,” he murmured.

Snape didn’t look at him as he got up and went to the bathroom. Remus looked at himself in the mirror. “What have you been doing?” it asked him, sounding shocked. He supposed he couldn’t blame it for asking. There was blood liberally decorating his cock, and he looked like he’d been eating raw meat there was so much of it on his face. He washed up quickly, wishing he could just enjoy the afterglow, but with his orgasm had come some clarity, and however much Snape might’ve wanted to be dominated, Remus couldn’t quite convince himself that he’d wanted _that._

Or if he had, that didn’t mean Remus should’ve given it to him.

He wet a washcloth with warm water, went back out and looked Snape over. He hadn’t sat up; considering the damage done to his arse, he probably didn’t dare. Remus licked his lips and passed the washcloth to him. “You might even consider a shower,” he said gently.

Snape held the rag blankly for a moment, as if he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

“To clean up with.” When Snape still didn’t answer, Remus became downright worried, and asked, “I’ll perform some healing spells.”

“No.” Snape’s voice sounded ragged; it cracked.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“All right.” The wolf part of him was pleased by this; the man simply felt a tug of shame. He helped Snape up, steadying him when his knees threatened to buckle. Remus pushed him into the bathroom and closed the door tightly. He went back into the living room and collected Snape’s clothes, casting _Reparo_ over and over to fix tears and reattach buttons.

Eventually the shower turned off, and Remus looked up in time to see Snape emerge, a towel around his waist, inky hair dripping, and then the slender figure disappeared down the hallway toward his bedroom.

“Bring water,” he called back over his shoulder.

With his eyebrows halfway up his forehead, Remus obeyed. When he followed, he was more than a little taken aback to see Snape in his bed. Snape drank deeply and lay back down.

“Is this okay?” Snape asked, carefully toneless.

“Only if I can join you.”

A nod.

Remus climbed in, awkward at first, more than a little concerned. His instinct was to soothe, and finally he shrugged and gave in, reaching out urgently to grab Snape’s shoulders and pull him backwards. They spooned, Snape suddenly boneless in Remus’s arms. 

“Severus,” he whispered.

“Shut the fuck up, Remus.” Not angry. Sleepy. Satiated.

Remus smiled.

They slept.

When they woke again, hours later in a cool, blue darkness, they made love. Severus lay on his back, arching up into Remus’s touch, his gaze open and unflinching. Remus touched and kissed him everywhere, across his chest, down his spine, on cock and balls and between his buttocks. For the first time, Severus touched him as well, with questing, tentative fingertips and a hot, honeyed mouth. Remus moved in Severus gently this time, with a ridiculous amount of lube, knowing he had to be blindingly sore, despite the fact that he opened to Remus without prompting. Remus listened to the soft sighs and kissed away a few spare tears that dripped down Severus’s temples.

The enthralled cry that came out of him at the end was beautiful, and Remus followed him under, more aware of the way Severus clutched him close with arms and legs than anything else.

They slept again.

When he woke once more, this time to full daylight, Severus had gone.

Embarrassment, no doubt. Shame at having been seen that way, perhaps at having wanted it. Panicked over the vulnerability. Remus would’ve liked to say he’d expected it. And he supposed he would have, if they’d left it at the first time. After leaving Severus covered in blood and trembling from the most savage fuck Remus had ever known, he wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d never seen Severus again. But after the second, after the sweet melting, he’d closed his eyes knowing sanctity. It hadn’t occurred to him that Severus hadn’t felt it as well.

He made some eggs for breakfast. Drank coffee. Took a shower and read the Daily Prophet. Tried to convince himself that he had no need to track Severus down. Tried to pretend he didn’t care, when he really, really did. He felt carved.

This hadn’t been the point, he thought. He’d needed a way to fill the empty hours, to keep the echoing emptiness from swallowing him whole. How had Severus put it? Treading water. Remus had needed some connection, however thin, to keep him from going under. And instead, it was worse. He’d only found another loss to grieve over.

“I need some part of you,” Remus whispered, and went back to bed.

He didn’t see the note until the next day. It was stuck, strangely enough, to the inside of his front door of all places. He was on his way out to go shopping, determined to do _something_ besides stare at the walls remembering the feel of soft skin. He plucked the parchment down with a sense of gratitude—no matter what it said, he hadn’t simply been forgotten.

Severus had written:

_You aren’t like them. I wish I’d known before, but if it helps, I know it now. I think you might understand why that means I can’t see you again. I can’t afford to sink. I can’t go under, not for any reason._

A space, as if Severus had needed time to think. And then:

_I’ll send Wolfsbane if you need it. Just owl Hogwarts._

Remus trailed his fingertips across the surprisingly cramped handwriting, everything suddenly quiet inside. Yes, he thought, eyes soft on the parchment. Yes, that would do.


End file.
